by Paula Cox
“You are trying, aren’t you? Why?”
“Why?” I shrug. “I have no clue. I just am. Hell, I couldn’t stop thinking about you all night. Isn’t that reason enough? Don’t make me squirm, pretty lady.”
“The restaurant pays my bills. Well, sometimes it does. Sometimes I’m deep in the hole. Other than the wage, I don’t like waitressing. But people have to do things they don’t like sometimes, don’t they?”
I nod. “That’s true.”
We are quiet for half a minute. A light breeze blows, whistling through the metal frame of the ferris wheel and kicking up clouds of dust on the walkways.
“So what do you want to do, then?”
I barely recognize my own voice. What is this, some kind of date?
“Do you really want to know, mysterious biker man?”
I smirk. “Mysterious biker man . . . yeah, I like that. And yeah, I really want to know.”
“Okay. Don’t laugh, though?”
“Why would I laugh?”
She looks at me seriously, a crease appearing in her forehead, her cheeks glowing red.
“Okay, okay, I won’t laugh.”
“It’s a complicated answer,” she says, as though warning me.
“Jesus, Hope, I’ve never known someone to give such a build up to a speech before. Just tell me.”
“You don’t have to boss me around.”
“Problem with me is, I can’t help but boss people around. Because I am the boss.”
She shakes her head, but there’s that smile on her lips again. “Fine, Mr. Boss Man. Career-wise, I want to be a chef. I want to cook amazing meals. I want . . . I want to use my skills. I think I have skills. I think I could make an excellent chef, if I was just given a chance.”
“There's nothing better than a home-cooked meal . . . You a good cook, then?”
“I don’t want to blow my own whistle—”
“Screw that!” I bark, a tad too forcefully. But she doesn’t shrink back. Man, she’s brave. Fearless. I respect her. That’s a huge thing to admit for a man like me, even if I’m only admitting it to myself. “If you’re good at something, tell the goddamn world that you’re the best at it! Never let anyone take that away from you.”
She bites her lip, swallows, and then lets out a long sigh. “Okay, I’m a good chef. A great chef, I think.”
“So why aren’t you working in the kitchen at Gourmet’s Hollow? The food there tastes like ass half the time.”
“My boss, Lucca, is a pervert. A world-class perv. A creep. He makes men who lurk in train stations in the middle of the night, in long overcoats, ready to flash anybody who passes—he makes them look respectable.”
“Oh, right.”
I tuck that away for later. Maybe this Lucca character will one day learn not to creep on a man’s woman—
But she’s not your woman! Not yet!
It’s hard to think around a woman like Hope. A smart, sexy, brave woman.
“What else?” I ask. “You said the answer was complicated. That doesn’t seem so complicated.”
“The other thing,” and she brings her hands together, interlocking her fingers, “the other thing is that I come from a family of addicts. A long line of them. What I want, more than anything, is to never have to watch someone go through that again. The drugs and the detox and the pain and the . . .” She breaks off, out of breath. She sucks in air and her cheeks bloom an even brighter shade of red.
“I just want to be content.”
“I know the feeling,” I mutter.
“You do?” She raises her eyebrows. When she does that, she gets this deer-in-the-headlights look.
I can’t help it. My cock is so hard it might explode. Those breasts, those legs, that elfin face.
“I know a way to fix it, pretty lady,” I breathe, my voice trembling with lust.
“How?” she murmurs, her dark eyes gazing up at me softly.
“I’ll show you.”
Then I lean across and place my hand between her legs, up her skirt and against her panties.
She gasps, but she doesn’t push my hand away.
Chapter Five
Hope
I look down at his hand, my breath catching, my heart a series of explosions in my chest. Did he really just do that? It’s a silly question. His hand is down there, pressing against my panties. His middle finger presses the hardest; I feel it against my clit. I look up from his hand into his face. It’s solid, his expression impossible to believe.
Then I reach down and grab his wrist. I think I’m going to move it away—that’s my intent, anyway—but then I just hold it, neither pushing it away nor pulling it toward me.
He continues to stare at me, the same way he stared at me in the restaurant. His blue eyes . . . the eyes of a deadly predator. I am in his clutches, I realize. My pussy gets hot, wet, and tingles of pleasure move up from my clit into my belly, warming me up.
“You want it,” he says. It’s not a question. His mouth is slightly open, almost a silent growl, his eyes focused and calm. “You want this, Hope.”
Slowly, I release his wrist and bring my hands to my chest. I haven’t been with a man in a long time. But it’s not just that.
I’ve never met a man this forward, never in my life. I’ve been with men, of course, but they have been nervous, slightly embarrassed, almost scared by the fact that I’m a woman. Killian is nothing like that. His hands don’t shake. His lips don’t tremble. His eyes don’t turn soft. It’s like he’s a lion and I’m a lioness. He’s seen me, he wants me, and so he’ll take me.
He begins to move his hand, his palm pressing against my lips, his middle finger finding my clit and pressing down on it, rubbing it from side to side. Embers flicker down there; a ball of heat appears and sits deep in my pussy, making it hotter, wetter. He rubs me softly at first, playing with me. I close my legs around his hand, trapping it there. I don’t want his hand to move. I need it there. It’s as though his hand is no longer a hand, but a fire-hot sex toy, knowing expertly how and where to touch me.
Then he stops rubbing me, takes his hand from between my legs.
“What?” I breathe. My chest rises and falls rapidly. Beads of sweat cover my skin, my forehead and my cheeks and my arms and legs.
“Don’t worry,” he says, his voice low, throaty. “You’re not getting away that easy. I just want to feel it. Stand up so I can take off those tights, you sexy little thing.”
I know that this is my chance to stop it. If I want to stop it, this is my only opportunity. Once I allow him to take my tights off, it’s game over. If his hand felt like that through tights and panties, I know that it’ll be impossible to fight him when he’s touching my bare pussy. Maybe I should stop it. I don’t know him. I only met him tonight.
But I’m standing up before I give it any real thought. I’m horny. That’s the truth. I’m so horny for him right now. My panties are damp and my clit is engorged, aching to be played with.
Killian wastes no time. As soon as I am on my feet, gripping the rail of the cart so I don’t fall out of the side, he yanks my tights down around my ankles and then pulls at my panties. They snap away from me and he drops them on the floor of the cart.
“Oh my god!” I squeal, as the panties ping away.
“Don’t sit down,” he commands. That’s what it is, a command. He uses the same tone of voice he used in the restaurant. Business. Carry on. I’ll deal with it. At those words a dozen gnarled, hardened bikers snapped to attention.
“Why?” I reply. There is a tremor in my voice, but it’s a tremor of lust. I want his hand on my pussy again. I want his fingertip against my clit.
“I want to see that beautiful fucking ass when I make you come.”
Then he reaches around me and presses his finger against my clit. With his other hand, he grabs my ass cheeks, gripping the flesh so hard I know there will be handprints on my skin tomorrow morning.
“You’re so sexy,” he breathes, rubbing my clit,
hard. “You’re so damn sexy.”
I know instantly that this is a man who is familiar with women’s bodies. He does not search for my clit; his finger goes to it as though he is metal and my pleasure spot is a magnet. He doesn’t hesitate before grabbing my voluptuous ass; he sinks his hand in without pause.
I stand facing away from him, hands clasping the edge of the cart. He sits behind me, one hand wrapped me around to my pussy, the other playing with my ass.
“You’ll come for me,” he says, matter-of-fact. Not a challenge or a threat. Just a boss telling me what’s going to happen.
His middle finger slides between my lips and presses down on my clit so hard it hurts a little. But just a little. Otherwise, it is pure white-hot pleasure. He moves it back and forth, the friction like a tongue, licking, licking.
“Fuck—fuck!” I cry, gripping the cart so hard my knuckles turn marrow-white.
“Good,” he grunts.
His hand grabs at my ass, pulls the flesh and then releases it. “Your ass is fucking beautiful,” he says.
All the while his hand is moving between my legs like a piston, back and forth, back and forth. Soon, I can’t feel his hand, not really. All I can feel is a deep center of heat inside of my pussy, a center of heat which expands outward until it consumes the entire lower half of my body. My knees shake, knock together. Thought deserts me. I know only one thing: his hand between my legs. Even my ass, being grabbed and pulled, seems distant.
The heat builds and builds, and somewhere faraway I think: This is Killian O’Connor. This is the leader of the Satan’s Martyrs. He is tattooed and a bad man and this is wrong. This is so wrong and yet it feels so right.
“Good girl,” he comments, his hand moving so fast now his arm is a blur.
I rock with the movements of his hand, writhing forward when he goes back, back when he goes forward, grinding his hand like it’s a cock. My pussy has never been this wet. That’s not an exaggeration. I’m hot and soaking. I grind his hand and he rubs me, showing no sign of tiring. I don’t know how long it’s been but I think he could do this all day.
“Sexy fucking thing.”
My eyes tight shut, spasms rocking my body, his hand a piston on my clit, my breath catches. I can’t breathe. My mind swims red. My body is burning. Sweat drips down my thighs . . . or is it just my wetness?
And then, all at once, it releases.
“Ahhhhhh! Fuck! Ahhhhh!”
I reach down and grab his wrist, holding his hand there, right there, as the orgasm implodes inside of me. Twenty seconds of pure euphoria take me, throw me around, float me. I’m flying. I’m soaring.
Then it passes, and I open my eyes onto the darkness of the amusement park.
“Jesus!” I pant, bringing my hand to my chest. “Jesus Christ! That was—”
“We’re not done,” Killian says, his voice ice-cold.
I turn to him, the movement made awkward by the heels and the tights around my ankles, and see that he is panting with hunger and unbuttoning his jeans.
“We’re not half done yet, Hope.”
He pulls down his jeans and his briefs. His cock springs up out of the waistband. Jesus . . . It is huge, at least ten inches, and thick. It is the type of cock you only ever hear about. It is truly massive. So thick I don’t think my hand would reach around it.
He sits down bare-assed on the seat.
“Get rid of those tights,” he says, his cock pointing straight up, steel-hard, a rod of pleasure. “I want that tight cunt. I want to spank that round gorgeous ass as I fuck you.”
My pussy aches for it. My hole is begging me for his cock.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay, Killian.”
“Now, Hope,” he says, his eyes like chips of blue ice in the moonlight. “Do it now. I need it.”
I kick my heels off and step out of the tights, so that I’m just wearing my skirt and my shirt. His eyes move up and down my body, starting at my breasts and stopping at me feet. They linger on my upper thighs, where my skirt has been pushed up by his hand.
He reaches forward, grabs me by the waist, and lifts me off my feet. His hands are warm against my hips and he lifts me as though I weigh nothing. He shows no sign that this exerts him. The way he does it, it’s easy.
“Oh god, Killian,” I moan.
He lowers me down, down, I split my legs and he lowers me all the way down to his cock. I am soaking wet and pre-come clings to the end of his cock. He slides into me, all ten inches of him, wet and hot and without resistance. His cock fills me entirely, presses into my sweet spot and past it, inching toward my lower belly. It should be painful—he’s so big—but I am too horny, I want it too badly to feel any pain.
I grab his shoulders, digging my fingernails into the leather of his jacket. He grabs my ass cheeks, one hand per cheek, and digs his hands in.
Then, lifting me up, he begins to thrust. Slow but deep, at first, he thrusts into me. His cock stretches my pussy, stretches it more than any man—or any dildo, even—has ever stretched it before. His breath comes ragged, aching, drawn-out, the breathing of a man holding back, the breathing of a man who could come any minute.
I stare down into his face, but his eyes are locked on my breasts. His face is hard-set, serious, intense.
“Get them out,” he says, as his cock penetrates me all the way to his balls. “Get those fucking breasts out. Now.”
I release his shoulders and quickly unbutton my shirt, all the way to my belly, and then reach around my back and unclip my bra. My large breasts burst free into his face.
“Fuck!” he grunts, and then throws his face forward and suckles my nipples, suckles them hard until the nipples become erect, switching between both breasts like he can’t decide which one he wants more badly.
“I can’t hold back,” he says into my chest, his breath massaging me. “I just can’t.”
“Then don’t,” I moan.
There is a pause. Everything stops. The tip of his cock hovers just outside of my hole. His hands stop moving on my ass. His face is unmoving in my chest. And then he springs into life, a hunter leaping from the brush at its prey. He licks and sucks my breasts. Madly, sucking my pale flesh if he can’t find my nipples, sucking randomly. Sucking like an un-caged beast. His hands spank my ass, grab it, stroke it. Whatever he wants, he does. And his cock pounds into me.
He lifts me by my ass cheeks and pounds me, his cock a drill thrusting in and out, in and out. Deep, hitting my sweet spot, and then stretching me on the way out, and then deep, deep.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I cry, bouncing up and down on him. “Oh, fuck, it’s so big, it’s so fucking big!”
“Take it!” he roars, throwing his head back and staring up at me. “Take it!”
“Yes, yes, yes!” I moan, bouncing as he thrusts, bouncing so that his ten-inch cock penetrates me so hard, and so deep, that all I know is the fire of it.
His cock pounds into me relentlessly. There is no mercy. And I don’t want mercy. I ride it, bounce on it. All thought of the right or wrong of this has fled my mind. All I care about is his solid face and his even more solid cock.
“Come quick!” he commands, his lips twisted in agony. “Come quick for me, Hope! Fucking come quick for me!”
Bouncing, bouncing, I momentarily wonder if the park is really empty—
But then I no longer care. His cock slides from hole to sweet spot, filling me, and then something shatters inside of my pussy. Shatters and spreads through me.
“Oh. My. Oh. My. Oh my fucking god!”
The orgasm originates at the end of his cock, the tip of it smashing my sweet spot, causing pulses of pleasure to take me. I bite down on my lip so hard that the taste of blood fills my mouth, but I don’t care. I don’t feel it. All I feel is the orgasm.
It is the kind of orgasm only deep penetration can provoke. The kind of orgasm only men as hung as Killian can provoke. The strength goes from my body and I ride the pleasure, close my eyes and ride it; and Killian props
me up, still pounding me.
“You’ve gone so fucking tight,” he breathes. “Fuck, fuck, so fucking tight.”
The wetness of my orgasm drips over his cock, into his crotch, and he fucks, fucks.
“You’re too—”
He cuts short, unable to speak.
“Do it!” I plead, as my orgasm passes. “Come in me! Do it! Fuck, fuck, do it!”
